


Twin Omens

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Footnotes, Gen, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: An angel and a demon. Two children. One Antichrist. What could possibly go wrong?Or: A narrative of certain events in which the Youngs take home surprise twins and Aziraphale and Crowley still manage to lose track of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simple beginnings. Human beginnings. World endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the precursory- I haven't read the book- disclaimer so this is mainly based on the TV Show with some other liberal interpretations thrown in. Especially when it's funnier. This was an idea born out of the thought "The only way this show could be better is if the Youngs took home two babies and the boys STILL kept tabs on the wrong boy and lost track of the Antichrist."
> 
> EDIT: I am also trying out these fancy footnotes now.

It is considered a universal truth that no one is truly prepared for parenthood. Arthur Young, being a traditional sort of man, considered himself no exception to this rule. However, as he crept into the hospital room, he suddenly found himself half as prepared as he previously thought.

"Twins!?" His heart palpitated in his chest, and he gave serious consideration to his doctor's words about giving up his pipe. "N-no one said anything about... twins!"

The sister standing by the bassinets froze, her eyes darting between the two babies, then she smiled. The sort of smile that was almost a nervous rictus. "Yes! Congratulations are in order... twice!"

Arthur wasn't quite sure what emotions he was experiencing. They were heavy enough and large enough that he had to feel his way into one of the uncomfortable chairs next to his wife's hospital bed. "I never... Is this.. is it normal not to know about twins like this?"

The nurse gently rocked one of the bassinets back and forth on its wheels. A soothing motion. "Well, birth is miraculous, really, isn't it? I suppose one of them must have been shy. Hiding behind his brother this whole time. That can happen. I think."

Mr. Young was suddenly glad he had missed out on the entire birthing process. There was an alternate reality, he was quite sure, in which he had been present in the room and passed out at the sight of all the blood and fluids and gotten a concussion.

Deirdre began to stir, and Arthur reached out to grasp her hand, despite the presence of someone else in the room. 

"Mmarthur?" She turned her head.

"Here, Deirdre."

"You missed all the excitement darling," it was said lightly, but there was a bit of bite beneath the comment. Something told Mr. Young he would be paying later. "Did you see...? Where?" Deirdre turned her head and cooed at the bassinet in front of her. "Oh there he is!"

"Yes, both of them are here. Both very normal with the absolutely tiniest toesy-woesies!"

"Both?" Deirdre blinked and took in the second bassinet for the first time. "I'm-I'm sorry?"

"Oh don't be alarmed my dear, it's very, very normal to forget the birthing process. A blessing really, considering how painful it can be. Yes, both your little men here!"

Deirdre had never given birth before, and it was certainly true that she did not remember the actual event itself, other than a general blur of images and emotions. Still, it seemed wildly improbable to forget a expelling a second human being from her own womb.

"I.. are you.. sure? I don't remember a second... coming out of me."

"Oh they were very close. One after the other. Just like Jacob and Esau. Only of course your boy wasn't hanging off the other's heel, but nearly so. Probably would have come out at the same time if that were possible." The nun smiled again, reassuringly.

Deirdre slumped against the scratchy hospital pillows. Less than five (conscious) minutes of being a mother and she already felt inadequate. Was it really possible to forget that? Were the gaps in her memory normal? Was this the biggest mistake she and Arthur had ever made?

"Now," said the nun, pulling out a tin of biscuits, "have you thought about names? I suppose you'll be needing more than you originally thought, yes?"

\---

Aside from the oddity of being parents to twice the number of children they anticipated, Mr. and Mrs. Young soon settled into their new life of sleep deprivation, feeding, and cooing over their newborns easily enough. They had managed to find more supplies at a secondhand store in the next city over. Now the cottage was fully supplied as if they had always expected to welcome twin bundles of joy into their home, and the anxiety and strangeness of the boy's birthday faded into the background. They led exceedingly normal lives.

Until eight months later when they had a strange bevy of visitors. First there was a Scottish nanny—Madam Ashteroth?—offering her services. Though affordable, the Youngs were firmly _not_ the sort of family who would hire on a nanny. What would the neighbors say? No one in Tadfield had ever had a nanny. It simply wasn't done. So they turned her away.

Then an ancient man with the bushiest eyebrows came the next day and offered his services as a gardener. Mr. Young was not about to hand over the care of the site of his cold war with the neighborhood watchman to anyone else, thank you very much. (And he was sure this year his hollyhocks would bring the Tylers to their knees.) They did tell the man that the church however, might be looking for a gardener and gave him Mr. Pickersgill's number and told him to call the vicar on Monday. Brother Francis looked distinctly put out by their response.

They were the first visitors of many. Pest control. A lost postal worker. An antique enthusiast wondering if they had a spare room for rent. A ginger beekeeper looking for a place to store his apiary. Mr. Young firmly turned that one away as his wife had a frightful bee allergy.[1] Each one more improbable than the last and seeking to insert themselves into an already crowded life. They were rebuffed every time.

\---

"Maybe we need a more hands-off approach?" Aziraphale shifted in his seat on the bench in Tadfield's town square. Trying not to look like he knew his companion too well. Despite the fact that they had driven into town together.

"This one should have worked,"Crowley grumbled.

"I think it would have worked better if you had been willing to let your car look like it was in any type of distress." The angel said the words delicately, but with a firmness that let Crowley know who the angel thought was to blame. As a ruse 'motorists in distress' was quite a simple one.

"They're _humans_ what do they care what their eyes are telling them?" Crowley crossed his arms and sulked a little bit into the bench. _"You_ didn't hold up your end of the bargain that's what happened!"

"Me? What did I do?" Aziraphale sat up in his seat, affronted. He was an _angel_ and being accused of doing something _wrong_ was a serious matter.

"It's what you _didn't_ do." Crowley let out a soft 'tssh' sound behind his teeth. Not quite a full 'tsk.' "You were _supposed_ to give them your-your sad and mournful... _helpless_ look. It's..." The demon paused. He certainly didn't need to go around giving his former-enemy-who-refused-to-acknowledge-that-they-were-friends-friend information that Aziraphale possessed a _look_ that was utterly irresistible. He already used it to his advantage far too often, and the angel was too guileless to be aware of what he was doing for the past sixty centuries.[2]

He turned his shaded, bespectacled glare towards the angel, "It would have worked. Your... divine... celestial energy... My suggestion... It should have worked."

"That's what we've been saying for months now," Aziraphale said the words testily.

Crowley rubbed his face with his long, bony fingers. "Must be the brat. His... defenses." The demon let out a frustrated groan.

"I do feel a bit of a headache, now that you mention it. Rather like... barometric pressure. Though it is going to rain." The angel looked up and Crowley had to dropkick a smile off his face as he remembered the First Rain in the First Garden on the Wall so very long ago. The demon was utterly cool at detached as his companion looked his way.

"Right. Well... back to Soho then? Figure out what 'hands off' means over some Château Lafite?" Crowley had stashed a few bottles back in the 80s. The 1880s.

There was a moment where Aziraphale considered the offer. These moments always filled Crowley with dread because, while the angel generally said yes (and more often in the last seventy years or so) there were still the times he would say _no_ and Crowley had to disguise the peculiar sensation of the interior of his chest collapsing in on itself.

"Well, I must say that does sound rather lovely."

Crowley felt the same, strange crushing pressure in his chest as Aziraphale beamed at him, warmth and contentment radiating from the cares and creases on his vessel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 As Mr. Young went to shut the door the apiarist blurted out "They're hypoallergenic!" The two men stared at each other in stock silence for fifteen seconds until Mr. Young gently shut the door on the strange visitor. [ return to text]
> 
> 2 Of course Crowley, as the architect of the plan, had not considered the fact that others found Aziraphale's looks—if they were able to catalog them at all—entirely ordinary and resistible. Well, as ordinary and resistible as an angel could be. Certainly Crowley had not accounted for the fact that mortals were not—like demons (or certain demons)—weak to angelic influence. After all, how many angelic messengers had been baffled on their reception by utter terror or the ungovernable force of Free Will? (Crowley had managed to convince Head Office it was _his_ doing every time an angel went back in disgrace in the recalcitrant face of humanity. Which considering the whole apple business... fair enough.)[ return to text]


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So close and yet so far...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed up the last chapter slightly and added some footnotes. If almost all these footnotes seem to be from Crowley's POV well.......... look I can do what I want!

Mrs. Young had managed, by sheer force of will, to arrange an educational and enriching day trip by herself and her two children to London. Mostly this meant pushing the children around in a rented stroller in the vain hopes of tiring them out. (Mr. Young was originally meant to accompany them, but he’d been struck by a sudden head cold. Between minding her twins and her husband, she knew which she preferred.) Mrs. Young, being practical, had decided that after an exhausting afternoon of dinosaur bones and taxidermy polar bears to visit a park before subjecting the traingoing public to her two sons.

She had almost despaired when she realized that Mr. Squids had been left behind with the taxidermy polar bears, but it was a stroke of luck that Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley just happened to be at the park. A miracle, really.

It embarrassed her, in hindsight, that she hadn’t even thought to invite either of the boys’ godfathers to the outing, but then she had only just discovered her long-lost cousin, Mr. Fell shortly after the boys were born. Mr. Crowley was an old friend from Mr. Young’s days at university. Another rekindled connection. [1]

They were strange fellows, but Mrs. Young felt sure that her children would be alive and well for the half hour or so it would take her to complete the errand.

Thus it was that Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves on a Tuesday afternoon, watching over two three-year old humans as their mother retraced her steps to rescue the stuffed squid from the museum’s lost and found department.

The two children were small, surprisingly resilient, and nearly indistinguishable from one another. The main differentiating trait between the two boys seemed to be that Warlock could be persuaded, from time to time, to sit and play with a car or draw a picture whereas Adam was perpetually in motion.

Also one of them was blonde and the other had shiny black hair.

“So which one do you think is, ah, the…?” Aziraphale trailed off, fingertips tapping together, not certain how to delicately phrase _‘the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness’_ out loud. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows in a significant way towards his companion, instead, to convey his intention. After all, surely his not-friend would have insight into the matter, having delivered the boy himself?

Hand-delivered not… the other sort. 

Crowley snorted and rolled his eyes beneath his shades, “Isn’t it obvious, angel?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale worried the ring along his pinky. “They both feel… well, perfectly human! You would think we could sense the… the… one who is.. you-know-what.”

Crowley threw his arm over the back of the bench and discreetly snapped his fingers, cushioning a fall from one of Adam’s more adventurous climbs on the jungle gym. “No one gets to sense him. Protection from Above and Below. Just in case there’s a traitor in our midst.” The old serpent’s mouth twisted into a wry, self-deprecating smile.

“So how do _you_ know if it’s so obvious?” Aziraphale’s words came out hot and shorter than he would have liked. [2]

“Boy can’t deny his nature. It’s in the little things. Let’s take stock of our options. Over here we have Adam. A totally normal, perfectly ordinary example of a juvenile human. No sense of his own mortality or limitations. Eating bugs and dirt as soon as someone lets him.” Aziraphale let out a dismayed cry as Adam shoved a weevil into his mouth. Where his lips and teeth disguised the fact that it had turned into a tasty gummy treat.

“Oh, I say! Is that good for him? Generally their lot don’t eat insects. I mean, there are places where it’s a delicacy, but—”

“It won’t kill him,” Crowley shrugged, feigning an authority he didn’t have despite millennia of observation. [3]

“Then over here…” He turned his head a few degrees and nodded towards the sandbox. “We have our once golden-haired, now black-haired little tot drawing the dread symbol odegra into the sand with a twig. Oh and then there’s the fact that the boy is called Warlock. Just _look_ at him!” Crowley did have a point that someone more in tune with fashion than the angel would have been able to appreciate. Warlock did look a little bit like a lost baby goth who had mistakenly fallen into a Baby Gap commercial.

Aziraphale squinted at the sandbox. “Are you sure that’s the dread symbol odegra? I think he’s just trying to draw a circle.”

Crowley let out a sigh through his teeth. “Need I remind you, angel—” the serpent over-pronounced the words “—that you are speaking to the mastermind behind the design of the M25? If you don’t believe me, go over there and look at the hatch marks on the outside of that circle and tell me that isn’t the dread symbol odegra. Go on!” The no-longer-angel egged his companion on after a moment of stillness.

“No, no,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I believe you.” Especially since Warlock had started on another dread rune that was, to his young sponge-like mind, a perfect recreation of the many flowers, corals, and other natural wonders that had penetrated his young brain, against all odds and an energetic brother attempting to crowd him out of the stroller.

“So,” Crowley rolled his neck and let his legs splay out rudely into Aziraphale’s portion of space underneath bench without actually touching the angel. [4] "That’s settled then. We focus our efforts on Warlock. Avert Armageddon. Simple as that.”

“I don’t think it wise to ignore Adam. I mean… what if he becomes jealous? Or his brother’s keeper?” The angel wasn’t aware of it, but he was pouting at Crowley, his lower lip jutting out just so.

Crowley found it incredibly difficult to disappoint Aziraphale. The mere thought of it gave him discomfort. Like he needed to shed his skin early. He sighed, as though concession were more difficult than disagreement, “Alright, yes, fine. We won’t entirely ignore Adam, but he’s not the key to Armageddon. His brother is. Don’t forget that.”

“Wonderful! I think we’re doing rather well with this whole godfather thing.” Aziraphale’s pronunciation was perhaps undercut by Adam and Warlock spontaneously bursting into tears almost simultaneously. Considering Aziraphale's love of food, it was embarrassing how long it took them to figure out the boys were hungry. [5]

Warlock suddenly bee-lined towards an ice cream peddler who had decidedly _not_ been there five minutes beforehand, much less five seconds. Aziraphale beamed at Crowley.

“You old softie.”

Crowley hissed, hunching into his shoulders, neck muscles taut and lethal looking. “Soft!? _Soft!?_ What kind of—that’s a _disgusting_ four-letter word, angel. How _dare_ you-you’re the soft one! Everyone knows that! Everybody!”

“Really?” The angel seemed far too pleased with himself. “Because I’m not the one who just summoned up an ice cream cart for our godsons.” Aziraphale pushed against his knees, rising to his feet.

“Wait—that wasn’t you?”

“No,” Aziraphale paused, mid-motion, and they both looked over towards Warlock, jumping up and down excitedly in front of the bright pictures showing all the treats contained within the cooler. Aziraphale let his eyes meet Crowley’s sunglasses again, and the demon shrugged.

“See? Obvious. You just need to… eh… look at things a little sideways.” The angel said nothing, but he went over to the cart and got four frozen treats. It was, perhaps, the least excited Crowley had seen the angel about food in over a century. [6]

Adam, for his part, had stopped crying as soon as his brother had. In his mind, ice cream made everything better. Now Warlock had ice cream, and he was better.

On her return, Mrs. Young chided them for giving the boys ice cream when there were perfectly good snacks in the bag she’d left with them, but Aziraphale could inspire anyone to forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 And one, much like her cousin, she forgot about unless either of the two men were standing right in front of her. [return to text]
> 
> 2 That one word was linked to an old and painful ache better left undisturbed. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Humans were distressingly fragile things, but then just when you thought something would be irrevocably fatal, one of them wouldn’t have the good sense or decency to succumb to something like a metal beam through the brain or dismemberment. Crowley had long ago given up trying to quantify the strange and inconsistent resiliency of Her children. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Yes. Crowley did invent ‘manspreading.’ (Despite not technically being a man.) The thought had occurred to him back in ancient Greece when outdoor theater started picking up. It wasn’t until public transport had been invented that it really came into its own. [return to text]
> 
> 5 Crowley figured it out first, the smug bastard. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Having emerged from his nap in time for the death of Oscar Wilde at the end of the 19th century, Crowley had witnessed a three-year drought in which Aziraphale neither ate nor drank. The first patisserie they’d visited to break his fast did nothing to bring the angel joy. They didn’t talk about it, and the unspoken haunted Crowley in his darkest hours (of which there were many as a demon). [return to text]


End file.
